Yosemite, you had me at Yo

Day 1
I hire a car, go for the belt and braces insurance, just in case a bear tries to get into it while I'm in Yosemite. I'm not kidding. I've seen the videos.

The start of the journey is on the daunting six-lane Highway 101 but it's all smooth sailing, apart from the radio. The town of Merced, once I've crossed a huge agricultural plain, is where it gets peculiar, particularly the advertising: a tattoo parlour declares it's the place 'for all your piercing and tattooing needs'; a gun store urges, 'whether you want to protect your home, your family, your property, or whether you just want some sport shooting fun, we have the gun for you... We also have a nice range of firearms for the lady in your life'. 

We start to climb and before too long I'm in Mariposa, half an hour from the park, where I stock up on supplies at the supermarket and refuel on tuna melt and fries, followed by strawberry shortcake, at the Sugar Pine diner, like something out of Happy Days with red vinyl lined booths and chrome stools at the counter. 

It's raining a little when I enter the Yosemite park but it's no less atmospheric, with Bridal Veil Falls and looming El Capitan swathed in mist.

I check in to my accommodation, Camp Curry, though contrary to the tented village's moniker, the cabins are not hot. Heating is $50 extra per night, so it's blankets for me. By the time I've piled everything on I have six layers. That should do it. 

I'm putting my food in the bear-proof box (mine pictured below) when I hear rustling behind me. 'It's okay, I'm not a bear,' says a guy from the cabin across the way. But I'm sufficiently spooked to skip my customary 3am trip to the loo, along an unlit road bordered on one side by trees.


Day 2:
I wake up freezing at 6.57am and make a dash for the shower, just to raise my core temperature. I grab breakfast from my bear box (no eating in the cabins) and head along to the camp's cafe for a latte. 

It's a little overcast but the clouds are high so I figure it's as good a day as any to do a waterfall loop – up Vernal Falls, up further to Nevada Falls, then back via the John Muir trail, a circuit of around eight miles but most of it up or down so slow going. Walking miles after kilometres seems to take so much longer. The trail follows the Merced river and is busy with all sorts, families with tiny kids, women with handbags, men in office shoes and more appropriately attired hikers like me. Vernal Falls is quite wide and the path climbs up the right hand side. Now I discover why this route is called the Mist trail, everyone gets a good soaking. 


A narrow staircase brings you out to a rocky plateau where people are sunning themselves, picnicking and drying off their wet things. After a peek over the edge (below, fenced off with railings) I have a snack and press on to Nevada. 

Nevada is a much narrower waterfall but the rocky channel at the top forces the water to spurt outwards so it's quite dramatic. I have lunch here overlooked by Iceberg peak, then descend via the John Muir trail, which follows the opposite side of the valley (below) for an alternative view of the Nevada.

I go straight to the shower block when I get back. There are lots of groups of schoolchildren in the park. Good on them, I guess, but at the Camp they are out till all hours, their shouts echoing around the pines. The girls take over the shower block in the morning and before dinner at night, endlessly sorting their hair, doing their make-up and discussing what they'll wear. 'You putting your shorts on tonight?' says one. Holy guacamole but it's freezing. 'Can I borrow your hairdryer,' says another. 'Yes, it's in my cabin on top of the… heater.' Crap. The kids have heated cabins. How annoying. 
Tonight I have a ticket to see a play about John Muir, in a lecture theatre in the village. On the way I visit the Ahwahnee hotel and enjoy a wander round this statuesque Arts & Crafts style building. Award-winning in its day, the main lounge is a vast cathedral-like space decorated with native rugs, prints and stained glass, with a fireplace the size of a small house (Ahwahnee is the name of the tribe who were living in Yosemite when the whites arrived).

The play is superb, a monologue created and performed by Lee Stetson and set as Muir is waiting to hear President Woodrow Wilson's verdict on whether to allow the California authorities to flood Yosemite's Hetch Hetchy valley, to create a reservoir for the Bay Area. Scottish-born Muir is one of the great American heroes and there would be no Yosemite were it not for his passion for preservation and his influence with key figures, notably President Teddy Roosevelt, who Muir brought hiking here and persuaded to create America's first National Park. 
Stetson, as Muir, reflects on his journey from boyhood, when he emigrated with his family from Dunbar to Wisconsin, through an adolescence of back-breaking farming work, to a position as an environmentalist of great prominence. 
So here is Muir...

And here is Stetson... Fully inhabiting his character, you could say. It's no surprise to discover that the play, with Stetson in the lead role, has been running for 31 years. Indeed, my dad went to see it in Yosemite in 1986.

The anecdotes, most of which come from Muir's own writings, show him to have been clever, inventive, funny and self-deprecating, caring of his fellow man, animal, and tree, but with no time for tourists, bureaucrats, or people who butter their bread. I meet Stetson afterwards and, when he hears I'm Scottish, says that always makes him nervous. But I reckon he got the accent down pretty well, though at first I did think he was from Yorkshire!

Day 3
I wake up, at 6.59am, to a sunnier day and though I'm still freezing the Camp looks a lovelier place with a little dappled sunshine. 

Although I had quite a heavy climbing day yesterday I decide to do one of the park's iconic walks, Yosemite Falls. I drive over to where the trail starts and start climbing almost straight away. And just when I'm thinking I could really do with a stick, my prayers are answered with a beautiful wooden pole lying by the track (or have I been listening to too much religious radio?).

It is a steady zig-zag up the first stretch and I more or less keep pace with a big family group strung out along the trail, youngsters at the front, mum with the knee issues at the back and dad keeping her company. There are views all the way through the trees and the sights become more impressive the higher I climb. Skirting the cliffs I suddenly catch my first glimpse of the upper falls.
Then there's another section of zig-zagging up a path made with great granite blocks. I finally reach the plateau at the top...

...and am rewarded with the incredible sight of a man in a stetson walking a tightrope across the top of the falls. 

To see the very top of the falls you have to climb down a staircase cut into the rock and then gingerly peek over the railing. The tightrope walker, or high-liner, is putting his shoes on and chatting to folk. Apparently he has walked the rope a few times today. 'Yeah, I fell off earlier,' he says nonchalantly. He's also talking about the webbing they use and says it's a quality one that costs $3.99 a foot. 'You wouldn't want to cut corners,' says one guy drily.

Half way down my descent there's a storm with thunder, lightning and hailstones that pile up like snowdrifts. 

The path is soon awash with small rivers as the water lashes down the cliffs above. A rock crashes down and hits the path in front of me, so I quickly duck behind a tree and see another rock crashing down behind. There's about 50 yards of trail open to the cliff above, and no way round. I watch and wait, but eventually I just have to make a dash for it. Frightening.

Later, I dry my boots by the Camp cafe's big stone fireplace. Built around the same time as the Ahwahnee they share characteristics – cavernous open spaces, wood panelling and huge fireplaces. Curry Camp is a tad more rustic, mind you. There's a pink sky over Half Dome tonight. 

Day 4
All things considered, today is the day for some gentle strolling. I go off to find Mirror Lake, a seasonal swelling of the Merced river. It's been a dry winter so the lake is more Mirror Pond. I walk the whole creek, taking a detour at one point on a small path meandering alongside the river. I'm sort of distracted by the lovely smell of the pines after the night's rain but, after about 20 minutes of not seeing any other people, my imagination goes into overdrive with bears and mountain lions about to jump out from the bush. Nervously I look around the woods and try to come up with an action plan should a wild animal appear to say hello. I work myself into a right old state and almost scream when I hear a rustling behind me. Oh God, this is it. I look round but instead of a snarling beast, I'm relieved to see two trail runners bashing down the path.

Next stop is Lower Yosemite Falls for a picnic lunch. I'm quite astonished by what I'll eat when famished – here hummus mixed with guacamole. Bleugh.The Falls are in two sections, the top part, where I was yesterday, and the bottom part, where most of the tourists flock for photo ops. 

I'm picking up on the American habit of chatting to anyone – they just love to introduce themselves to strangers. So when I see another tightrope walker crossing the Falls I point him out to a few people, gather quite a crowd.

Further on, Tunnel View is a vantage point from where you can see the U-shape of the glaciated valley with the hanging valley of Bridal Veil Falls on the right. It's also where the world and his wife wait for the sun to come out from behind a cloud so they can snap that iconic Ansel Adams shot. The tour group below are being pulled by a lorry with their guide sitting in the cage up front. Poor John Muir is turning in his grave.

My last stop-off in Yosemite is Sentinel Dome, the second highest peak in the valley with a 360-degree panorama from the top. There's a lovely gnarled old tree lying on top of the dome. It was a Jeffrey pine that died and keeled over, possibly from too many tourists carving their initials in its bark.

I'd love to wait and see the sun set from the top of the dome but I'm flying to JFK the following morning and have to pack and say goodbye to Bill and Denise. 
On the drive down from the dome there's a coyote striking a pose at the side of the road. He seems to understand that I want to photograph him and waits patiently in position while I wind down the window and take the shot. Have I made a special connection with a coyote? If I have, it would be no surprise. Yosemite is that kind of place.

All Saints

On Sunday I've arranged to meet Lisa and Dierk, old friends of my brother Sean and his wife Lara. They live in San Rafael, a town that lies on the other side of the Golden Gate bridge, at the foot of Mount Tamalpais. So I catch a train up the East Bay to Richmond, where Lisa will meet me. There are the coast mountains to the right and vast salt marshes to the left, dotted with bleak looking salt plants. 

My pals Bill and Denise aren't sure that Richmond is somewhere I want to hang about. They forget I live a stone's throw from Peckham. And yes, there are a few sad-looking characters but nothing that feels at all threatening. Midnight on a Saturday might be different, though.

Lisa drives me over the very long Bay Bridge to their place, a lovely home built on a slope with a pool at the bottom and, on the main floor, a huge terrace on stilts with a view over the trees to the Bay in the distance. There's a zip wire between the trees below the pool, probably mostly used by tomboy daughter Talia.

We grab daughters Zoe and Lara (dressed to jazz up a grey day) and head out to walk up Mt Tamalpais, which means 'lady lying down'. We're walking the Railway track trail – the train used to wind its very gradual way around the mountain and the path seems to go on for miles without gaining much altitude. At certain corners it blows a hoolie.

Lisa points out refrigerator trees ( ice cold to the touch and used to build ice boxes in the days before fridges) and redwoods large enough to be teenage hideaways.

We finally arrive at the West Point Inn, a hostel near the summit, and eat our sandwiches. Inside is a cosy wood-panelled mountain lodge with gigantic leather chairs and sofas, granite fireplaces and quaint stained-glass cupboards. There's a selection of tea, coffee and granary bars plus an honesty box for visitors.

We take the quick route down, via the fire department's building commanding views over the valley, an excellent vantage point for spotting forest fires. Lisa takes me on a loop via the John Muir woods and a great vantage point for bridge photos.

Back home, Dierk is back and we have a quick change then immediately head out to the Cinco de Mayo (a celebration of Mexican heritage held every May 5) dinner party that is being thrown by an old work friend of Lisa's, Sarah, and her husband Howard. They've just moved into a new house and it's gorgeous. All light and wood and a steeply sloping garden at the back and sun loungers by the chicken coop. Yes, really.

The dinner is Mexican and I make the big mistake of dipping my carrot into what looks like a tasty tomato sauce. When I try to talk my voice has gone and my eyes start to water. It is without doubt the hottest sauce I have ever tasted. When I've recovered, phew, there are wraps and beans and cheese and guacamole and tomato salsa and some great eggy stuff wrapped in corn husks – turns out they're tamales. 

I sleep in Lara's room and discover we have something in common – she collects snow globes. I'm so bushed I start to work on my computer in bed and fall asleep, waking 20 minutes later with it still propped up in my lap.

The next day Lisa takes me to the ferry terminal and I catch the commuter line over to San Francisco. The boat passes San Quentin, which houses California's only remaining death-row prisoners. 

That aside, what an uplifting way to commute. I see the bridges, the islands and finally the hilly outline of San Francisco. I spend the whole journey on deck.

The new Ferry Building is chock full of artisanal offerings – cheese, pork, bread and more organic produce than you can shake an Abel & Cole box at. I grab a coffee and peruse the map, trying to decide what to do with my day in the city.

In the end I go straight to the Museum of Modern Art where there's sculpture on the roof, a great interior and this bust of George Moscone, which I enjoy, having watched Milk on the plane. He was the charismatic mayor of San Francisco who was assassinated alongside councillor and gay rights campaigner, Harvey Milk.

I watch a visual piece called The Clock by Christian Marclay in a lush cinema set up inside the gallery. It's a film that last 24 hours and he has edited clips that show every minute of the day from probably thousands of films, many of which I've seen, many iconic, with big stars, many unknown or foreign. Totally absorbed, I stay an hour, from 13.17 to 14.17.

Then I wander around a few private gardens that are open to the public. A bird pecks me on the crown of the head. Was I too near its feeding ground or nest? The public art isn't a patch on what you find in London or New York, I mean... leaping children? I prefer this statue abandoned outside someone's front door, with a hoody casually slung over its head. Brilliant.





I stroll up to the Coit Tower and enjoy panoramic views and the murals (best vignette, below), moving Depression-era public art in the social realism style of Diego Rivera. I've been here before but it is my favourite building in the city. 



I dip down into the Italian neighbourhood around Washington Square then get a bus, 30, all the way to the Caltrans station for a train back to Sunnyvale.

The film & literature round

Today we stash Denise and Bill's folding bikes in the back of the car and head south. Our first stop is San Juan Bautista, one of the earliest of the missions founded by Spanish colonists trying to convert the heathen, believing they'd be easier to control if they were God-fearing. This particular mission was used for key scenes in Vertigo – Hitchcock had a ranch nearby – and in the summer they host outdoor screenings of the film.
There's a mission bell at the entrance, of the type made famous by the Eagles in Hotel California, but positioned originally to mark the route from mission to mission on the coast's El Camino Real (Royal Road).

We've timed it well. There's a living-history day going on so the lawn at the heart of the mission is busy with volunteers demonstrating traditional skills. The trapper shows off his conquests...
The seamstress demonstrates old-school embroidery and lacemaking, and models a few pieces she prepared earlier... 

The hurdy-gurdy man entertains with tuneful ditties, including versions of Over The Sea To Skye and She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain. We Scots can't help singing along... 
The blacksmith fashions iron hearts out of old horseshoes and keeps up a steady stream of banter while his assistant pumps the bellows into the fire...

There's a saloon complete with a jolly wench and a singer playing tunes on a guitar. 

We have ginger beers and as I'm wandering around with my drink I notice a picture of Robert Burns, here promoting cigars. He gets everywhere.

Driving south we pass fields with these giant tin people dotted about. The top of my head would line up roughly with this chap's cabbages (so to speak). I have no idea what they are for or why they are here. 

We arrive in the Monterey bay area where it's a bit too windy to start our bike ride where we'd planned but before we move on we take a quick look at the rock pools and find a girl enjoying her Quinceañera with a posse of pals. This is the coming-of-age that hispanic girls celebrate at 15, often in elaborate outfits and at great expanse. The birthday girl is the one in the absinthe-green meringue-style frock and they are racing back to the white stretch limo waiting by the beach.

The bike ride follows an old railway line in and out of Monterey, once California's largest and most bustling town thanks to its fishing and canning industries.
The Chinese started the canning industry here and before too long it attracted casual workers from all over the USA. Cannery Row itself, now more tourist mecca than hive of industry, was also the setting for one of John Steinbeck's best known short stories. 

Our biking route is lined with tiled plaques and street art commemorating the lives of past citizens, alongside Steinbeck quotes and depictions of his characters. 

'The cannery whistles scream and all over the town men and women scramble into their clothes and come running down to the row to go to work... The canneries rumble and rattle and squeak until the last fish is cleaned and cut and cooked and canned and then the whistles scream again and the dripping, smelly, tired Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women, straggle out and droop their ways up the hill into the town and Cannery Row becomes itself again – quiet and magical.' John Steinbeck, Cannery Row.

We cycle past a beach crowded with seals basking with their young pups. The seals spend a month feeding their young and teaching them to hunt so they can be weaned and go back to the water. The section of the shore where they're doing this is temporarily closed to the public. We watch through a mesh wire fence before folding up our Bromptons and driving home. As bike rides go, it's been most informative.